


It's Done

by Ebm36



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-12-30 20:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12116979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebm36/pseuds/Ebm36
Summary: Missing scene ep10/s3Grimaud is dead. Athos is wounded.Thank you Beth for your help and your enthusiasm.(English is not my native language.)♥♥♥





	1. Stubborn

_Plic, plic, plic._

 

        The unnerving sound slowly pierced the veil in which his strange trance had wrapped him. He didn’t even remember hauling the heavy soaked body out of the cold filthy water to lay him there, facing him in the posture of a dark marble knight. Blinking, he lowered his gaze towards the unmoving hated face but he barely recognised it, he couldn’t find the heinous rictus anymore or the thirst for revenge which always distorted the grim features. Lying in the arms of death, he was just a young man broken by a ruthless life.

 

_Plic, plic, plic._

 

        He shook his head with a bitter sigh which made the oozing walls spin, forcing him to close his eyes again. No, Grimaud was a murderer, an insane man. What was happening to him? How could he even have an ounce of pity for a monster who had dedicated his last days to destroy him and, above all else, all the people he loved, the people who were his world, the pillars making him stand every day.

 

_Plic, plic, plic_

 

        He didn’t even remember how he had ended propped up against the icy wall, his arms wrapped around his belly. He slowly lifted his right elbow and clumsily unbuttoned his jacket, enough to slip a hand under the soaked leather. He winced at the contact and his fingers came back dripping with an already coagulating sticky blood. He groaned and curled up a little but when a muffled sound came from the entrance, he fumbled to button the uniform again and hurried to compose himself an impassive expression. The footsteps shuffled towards him, the sound, almost metallic, reverberating through the depths of the cold vault. He didn’t have to raise his eyes to know who the person was. He slightly turned his head towards the young man and croaked, his voice betraying him:

 

“It’s done.”

 

        Then he lowered his eyes again towards the body at his feet.

 

_Plic, plic, plic._

 

“Athos.”

 

        The hushed worried voice of d’Artagnan startled him because he hadn’t noticed that the young man was now kneeling next to him. How many seconds or minutes had passed? He couldn’t tell. The grimace he couldn’t hide made the young man frown.

 

“Are you …?”

 

        Athos didn’t let him finish his question and, gingerly unfolding his sore body, he tried to stand up. He kept a hand flat on the wall at his back, the other one gripping the hard stone at his feet and tried to keep enough dignity through the whole process. A gloved hand hovering in his field of view made him look up at d’Artagnan with a stare under which the young man recoiled slightly. He knew how to avoid hurting his mentor’s pride but something was wrong.

 

“Athos.” He sighed.

 

        The grey-green eyes, darkened by the reflections of the dim light over the water, softened slightly when Athos noticed the bleeding gash on the young man’s cheek. He lifted a hand towards the wound and it made him lose his balance. D’Artagnan grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and pulled him towards his chest keeping him from falling back into the turbid waters. The muffled scream which left Athos’ mouth when his wounded side met the lean but muscular body forced d’Artagnan to take a step back and, without releasing the wet leather, he looked at Athos from head to toe.

 

“Are you hurt? Where?”

 

“I’m fine.” Athos mumbled.

 

        The moisture covering his face, making the grey circles under his eyes even more dark and the long lashes even more black on the pale skin, had now nothing to do with his previous bath. He was clearly in pain.

 

“Let me see.”

 

“We must … mmh … go …”

 

“Then … let me help you.”

 

        Athos shook his head and walked ahead of the sceptic young Musketeer who watched the unsteady gait of the Captain walking with his head as straight as possible, his right shoulder slightly more down than usual and his right hand clutching intermittently at his right side.

        They slowly made their way through the vaulted tunnels. They could hear the muffled sounds of the crowd outside the church, the screams of a baby, distant footsteps which made the eerie silence of the crypt even more sinister. When they turned round a corner, Athos stumbled and he would have fallen if not for the quick reaction of his young friend who caught his elbow in a firm grip. Athos leaned his shoulder on the wall and tried to silence the pain flaring through his whole body. Now wasn’t the moment.

 

“Will you let me help you now?” D’Artagnan murmured in his ear.

 

        Athos shook his head and straightened. D’Artagnan sighed.

 

 _Stubborn fool_. He thought inwardly.

 

“I … may … I think I could…”

 

“Rest a little before continuing?” D’Artagnan asked with a wry smile.

 

        He regretted it at once when the movement pulled on his wound. Athos looked at him with a deep frown.

 

“I’m fine.” D’Artagnan retorted pulling Athos down onto a big block of limestone probably left there by a stone carver who no longer needed it or judged that the quality wasn’t good enough. “Let’s sit down for a minute, enough for you to regain your … _panache_?”

 

        Athos snorted. He didn’t feel like joking or laughing but he knew that the young man was trying his best to cheer his mind, to give him courage. He welcomed this moment of rest. He tried to stay upright, to breathe deeply, to forget the terrifying void he could feel inside.

 

_It’s done._

 

“You know you can let go while we are here. Here, you are not the Captain of the Musketeers, you are just Athos, so rest while you can and stop trying to hide your pain.”

 

        As if his words weren’t enough, d’Artagnan laid two fingers on  Athos’ hand where it gripped his drenched knee as if it was the only way to stay conscious. He seemed to curl on himself at the comforting touch and dared to lean on the young man’s shoulder long enough to regain his strength. D’Artagnan could hear the ragged breath and feel the tremors in the slender wrist. Athos progressively straightened and withdrew his hand.

 

“Say nothing to the others of what happened.” He whispered locking eyes with his friend.

 

“But … Sylv…”

 

“Especially her.” Athos replied sharply. “Please. She had been through enough ordeals, I don’t need to add one.”

 

“But tonight you …”

 

“Tell her that I have work to do.”

 

“Athos!” D’Artagnan chided, his dark eyes blazing in the darkness.

 

        He sighed resignedly. To make Athos see reason was as useless as doing the same with the stone where they sat.

 

“Very well, but find a doctor. Please!”

 

        Athos simply nodded and stood up, swaying slightly but remaining straight, his head up, his gaze firm. They arrived at the bottom of the large stairs. Gripping the ramp, he bent down to retrieve his cape and hat but a burning sensation blinded him and d’Artagnan literally jumped to help him as his knees buckled and he fell forward, gasping, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a silent scream. D’artagnan knelt on the stair and gently grabbed his friend’s shoulders, steadying him and helping him to sit back on the floor. He managed it without forcing Athos to uncurl his sore body knowing that they had to wait for the pain to fade. A sheen of sweat covered Athos’ face where the curtain of his hair allowed it to be seen. D’Artagnan kept his hands on his shoulders. Shuffling on his knees he closed the gap between them and gingerly pulled Athos forward until his friend’s forehead met his own shoulder.

 

“Breathe, it will pass… But …”

 

        Athos tried to straighten.

 

“Wait …” D’Artagnan murmured in his ear.

 

        Athos sighed and leaned a little more heavily against the young man who ran his hand up and down his left arm in a calming gesture.

 

“Show me, Athos. You can’t stay like that.”

 

“Mmh … things to do.”

 

“Like what? Bleeding to death at the feet of the Queen.” D’Artagnan replied sharply, straightening.

 

        Athos stubbornly began to stand up and the young man had to allow it and helped him.

 

“Stubborn mule.” He mumbled to himself.

 

“I heard you.” Athos grumbled as he tried again to pick up his cape.

 

        D’Artagnan shook his head and retrieved Athos’ cape. The latter didn’t object when the young man made him turn around and carefully wrapped him in the grey thick leather, strapping it with delicate movements and finishing by laying both his hands flat on his Captain’s chest.

 

“Very well, Captain, do as you wish, but promise me not to die alone because you are too stubborn to ask for help.”

 

“I promise.” Athos vowed with a fake solemnity. “But don’t tell the others… and this is an order.”

 

        D’Artagnan just nodded and put Athos’ hat onto his disheveled head with a fond smile.

 

“Let’s go, Captain.”

 

        Gripping the bannister in one hand and his young friend’s wrist in the other, he managed to climb the stairs and arrived at the top with something close to his usual appearance: head straight, right shoulder slightly hunched but left hand discreetly clutching at his side. He had managed to give his eyes their usual stern look but it faltered as a shadow appeared in front of him, the large body blocking the light.

 

“Wha …” Porthos began.

 

“It’s done.” Athos interrupted harshly.

 

“But what …” Porthos began before d’Artagnan shook his head frantically to silence him.

 

“I’m fine.” Athos whispered, his voice hoarse.

 

        Porthos nodded, unconvinced, and d’Artagnan mouthed “ _Wounded_ ” and made a gesture pointing at his own side.

 

“Alright,” Porthos reluctantly admitted. “But let me help your fine person to enter the church without fainting on the pavement.”

 

“I can …” Athos couldn’t finish as he stumbled once more, his hat falling onto the dusty floor.

 

“Manage? Yes you can.” Porthos replied under his breath, gripping Athos’ arm in the vice of his strong fingers.

 

        Athos was about to retrieve his hat but Porthos stopped him.

 

“You don’t need that.”

 

        Before emerging in the clear light of the impressive nave, Porthos turned towards Athos, righted the cape which had slipped, tucked a wet strand behind his friend’s ear and smiled.

 

“Ready?”

 

        Athos nodded, smiling ruefully. They heard quick footsteps announcing a dishevelled Aramis running towards them.

 

“Don’t …” Athos murmured.

 

“Don’t what?” D’Artagnan asked in a low voice.

 

“Don’t tell him.”

 

“But you…” Porthos tried to reply.

 

        Athos just sent him a dark look which made d’Artagnan sigh and Porthos growl.

 

“D’Artagnan?” Porthos asked looking at the long gash slicing the young man’s cheek.

 

“We have other duties.” He answered with a painful smile before covering his cheek with a large folded handkerchief.

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

 

        Standing in the very place where they had said _adieu_ to their beloved Captain not so long before was as much a torture as the increasing burning sensation in his right side. He wanted to escape. He wanted to understand the carefully articulated words of the Queen. He wanted to forget the sensation of void he had experienced since he had watched the last breath of Grimaud die at the surface of the water in a series of thick bubbles, a few feet underneath the floor where they stood now.

        For a moment, he stared at the big slabs of stone where tiny dust motes were dancing in the white light, then he tried to force his brain to work and dispel the thick fog which was slowly mingling with his thoughts.

        A part of his mind was aware of the worried glances he received from his brothers, of the discrete brush of Sylvie’s hand on his arm which he tried to escape to keep some kind of military dignity. He wished he could be engulfed by the darkness he felt growing inside his body and merely disappear. Feel anything, hear anything.

   

_Disbanding my Musketeers?_

 

        He frowned and threw an anxious look at his friends. They looked a little surprised and worried for a second before their faces displayed a proud and happy expression. He almost jumped when he heard the crowd applaud. His mind tried to catch up with the whole situation and he briefly clapped his hands but the pain which flared through his side made him swallow his saliva and briefly close his eyes. He caught the frown d’Artagnan directed at him but averted his gaze. Aramis looked at him with a big smile. He hadn’t noticed, then, or was too engrossed in what was happening and what was said that nothing else was important to him at this moment. Surprisingly, Porthos never turned towards him, his face serious and solemn.

        Focusing on the Queen’s speech helped Athos to stay upright. He lost himself for a restful moment in the sight of the golden spirals of her bright blue dress. She was radiating light, from the porcelain of her eyes, to the delicate architecture of her head-dress, from the colour of her dress to the curve of her mouth, from the ivory of her skin to the sound of her clear voice.    

        Leaving the church without any support nearly brought him to his knees, his breathing was short and shallow as they approached the magnificent royal carriage. He could feel d’Artagnan’s gaze on him. He tried to straighten but it was too difficult. He had to be the Captain of the Musketeers until the Queen’s departure then, at last, he would be able to be the pathetic Musketeer he knew he was deep down. He would have to find a place where he could lick his wound alone. It almost brought a smile to his lips which made him forget his pain for a moment allowing him to follow the Queen’s words, to understand that Porthos had become Porthos du Vallon, that Aramis had made an awkward joke which could have sent him to the gallows.

        When the carriage left, d’Artagnan’s hand on his back steadied him and when the young man whispered a discrete _you alright?_ he nodded, brushing his hand on his friend’s back to reassure him, then he turned towards the others. He had to keep going for a few hours, or minutes at best, then…

 

To be continued...


	2. Defeated

♦♦♦♦♦♦

 

       The courtyard was dark. The intermittent silvery light of the moon piercing the heavy clouds was barely bright enough to distinguish the shapes of the collapsed buildings.

 

_Rebuild the garrison, Captain._

 

        He knew she hadn’t meant _now_ , but after letting d’Artagnan explain to Sylvie that he couldn’t see her that evening, after telling the others that he had things to do before joining them in the rooms allocated in the palace by the Queen after the garrison had been destroyed, Athos had let his steps lead him there. The smell of wet soot made him nauseous, or was it the pain, he wasn’t sure. He raised his eyes towards the statues next to which he had seen the dark figure of Grimaud emerge from a thick cloud of smoke, when he thought he had lost d’Artagnan, Constance and so many other people. He felt his eyes burning and brought his gloved fist to his mouth to silence a whimper.

        The slow leaking of blood soaking his shirt and his trousers, carefully hidden behind his thick cape, had slowed down to a small sticky trickling. He knew that infection would probably settle in his flesh, poisoning his blood, if he didn’t do anything to clean and close the wound, but his numb mind refused to acknowledge it. He stood there for what felt like hours, his vision had slightly adjusted to the dim light and the shapes of the buildings seemed clearer, the lines more sharp. Large black beams, sticking out like the barrels of giant muskets, seemed to menace him. He felt a cold sweat cover his back and a dull drumming sound invading his ears erased all the sounds of the night.

 

_Rebuild the garrison._

 

 _We are the garrison_ , he had told them, but now, now that the storm had given way to an eerie calm, he felt as empty as those walls. An empty shell. His lungs worked painfully to make the cool air enter them but they only managed to make him stay barely conscious. His throat hurt from the efforts he made to keep his sorrow hidden. From whom? He had no idea. From the ghosts haunting the place, from the memories he had left between those crumbled walls, from … He swallowed his saliva with difficulty and felt his vision blurring again. He squeezed his eyes shut but it was useless. He opened them and noticed that the light had changed, from the bluish rays of the moon through the clouds to an orange flickering glow. The drumming sound still filling his ears kept him from hearing the heavy footsteps which approached him.

 

“What are you doing here?” The low worried voice murmured.

 

        He didn’t want to answer, he couldn’t answer.

 

“I was sure you were hidden somewhere like a wounded cat.”

 

        He managed a snort which sounded like a sob to Porthos’ ears.

 

“Come back to the Palace, please.” Porthos added, carefully closing the gap between them.

 

        He briefly knelt to stick his torch between two heavy stones and stood again a few inches behind Athos’ back. He was tempted to face him but he didn’t want to frighten him or make him flee, even if it was probably not an option for the exhausted Captain.

   

“Athos, you need to …”

 

“Rebuild the garrison.” Athos mumbled, suddenly lunging for a burnt beam to pull on it with all his force and throw it onto a heap of rubble.

 

“Athos!” Porthos shouted. “Stop that!”

 

        He reached for Athos’ elbow to keep him from hurting himself even more. Athos screamed and let go of the blackened wood, gripping his wounded side with his left hand. Porthos reached for his shoulders and pressed gently.

 

“Come with me, now.” He whispered.

 

        Athos shook his head and Porthos felt his shoulders tremble, the tremors increasing until his whole body shook with the sobs he had so desperately tried to stiffle. He curled up on himself a little more and wrapped his arms around his torso as if it could help to contain the tears. Porthos very slowly covered Athos’ arms with his and forced him with all the delicacy he could muster, to uncurl and lean against his chest.

 

“Shhh … come on, now, please. You are dead on your feet.” He whispered in Athos’ ear.

 

“Dead on my feet …”Athos repeated bitterly, his voice hoarse. “Dead …”     

 

“Alive, Athos, you are alive and you will stay alive if you allow us to take care of you.” He replied, feeling the wet cheek shaking against his.

 

        He waited patiently, not letting go of the trembling body, until the sobs faded, until the tears ebbed, until Athos’ breathing calmed a little, intermittently broken by childish hiccups.

 

“Ready?”

 

        Athos stayed silent, leaning heavily against Porthos’ chest. The big man waited patiently his thumb brushing lightly over Athos’ wrist.

 

“And now?” He asked again a few minutes later.

 

        Athos nodded, defeated. Porthos turned him around with gentle moves to look at him. He didn’t like the sight of the waxen complexion, of the purple circles under the red rimmed eyes and above all else of the hollow look Athos directed at him. A look where Porthos discerned the flicker of a plea, something he interpreted as a silent _Help me_. Athos swayed slightly and Porthos tightened his grip on his arms.

 

“Come on.” He murmured again, leading his Captain away from the garrison.

 

        He had tied his horse outside. Athos managed to climb on the high beast  and Porthos settled at his back. He knew the pain had probably been excruciating, but Athos had stayed silent when he had propped him onto the stallion, his hands cupped under his bent leg. Now his head lolled against Porthos’ chest following the rhythm of the horse’s walk.

 

“Where are … we …” Athos mumbled, but he felt suddenly unable to finish his question.

 

“Not to the palace. I know a place.”

 

        Porthos curled an arm around Athos’s shoulders, to keep him from sliding from the saddle, but careful not to hurt his side, and they slowly made their way through a maze of dark alleys. The exhausted Captain closed his eyes.

 

⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

 

“Hey, you! …”

 

        The light of a candle which slipped between his eyelids when he tried to open them for half a second felt like a white-hot blade. He brought his left forearm to his face to block it and closed his eyes. He tried to gingerly open them again and squinted to transform the cloud hovering over his face into the well known features of a worried Porthos but it brought a flow of bile to his throat. He grimaced and clapped his right hand on his mouth, but the movement jarred his wound and made him moan.

 

“Shh, calm down … What do you need?”

 

        He felt Porthos’ warm hand on his shoulder and his foggy mind deduced that he had undressed him. He instinctively reached for the lower part of his body but Porthos stilled his hand.

 

“Don’t worry, your dignity is safe … Anyway, we are alone.”

 

        Athos brought back his hand to his wounded side.

 

“I’m sorry, Athos, I wanted to do it before you woke up but …”

 

“I must go …”

 

“Athos, last time, you told us that you had another arm. Sure, you have another one, but don’t tell me you have another liver … or another … life.” He finished, with a stern tone.

 

        Athos tried to turn his head to look at the unknown place. It was a tiny room, barely furnished and lit by a few candles melting on a bench next to the bed, if the thing where Athos was lying could be called a bed. The walls were of an undetermined colour, from ochre to brown. A narrow window was closed by a moth-eaten blanket and the smell of his own blood melted with the musty odour emanating from the straw mattress.

 

“Welcome to my secret den.” Porthos said, with a laugh which reverberated through the mattress where he sat, facing Athos.

 

“Where are …”

 

“Secret den I said, so, it’s a secret.” Porthos laughed again squeezing the hand he had kept in his.

 

        Athos winced and his body arched slightly when a burning pain went through his side. Porthos gently disentangled his fingers from Athos’ and reached for a small book he had laid on the crate used as a bedside table.

 

“What do …” Athos murmured frowning.

 

“Maybe you will need something to bite, and I prefer this something to be a poetry book rather than my arm.”

 

        Even in his agonising pain, Athos couldn’t help but let his lips curl slightly, then he looked straight into Porthos’ eyes ignoring the proffered book.

 

“Do it.”

 

“Very well, but …”

 

“Do it.”

 

“Aramis will kill me.”

 

“He won’t know.” Athos replied, closing his eyes against a new wave of pain.

 

“Don’t you think that his sixth sense has already sent him on your tracks?”

 

        Porthos didn’t wait for an answer as Athos had closed his eyes again, a deep crease on his forehead where beads of sweat shone.

  


⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

 

        Athos awoke to a burning sensation in his side. He had drifted in and out of a foggy world of mad dreams. He opened his eyes to see a frown on Porthos’ forehead. The man’s dark skin was covered in a sheen of sweat and his blue embroidered open shirt was hanging low on his shoulders as he worked with careful movements. Athos tried to concentrate on the sound of the water sloshing in a large bowl where his friend wrung a cloth already soaked in blood.

 

“How … mmmh … is it?”

 

“I think it’s clean now.”

 

        Athos tried to raise his head to look down at the wound but Porthos shook his head pressing his shoulders against the mattress.

 

“You don’t have to see. Why can’t you just let go, Athos.” He murmured almost to himself.

 

        Athos sighed and let his head roll on the pillow. Before closing his eyes he had a glimpse of Porthos threading a needle and breathed in deeply waiting for the pain to hit but it never came, as, after a brief flash of blinding light, everything became black.

 

**To be continued ...**


	3. Sore

        The rumbling sound and the heat against his left side awoke him. He was on his back, a light sheet covering his chest. He sluggishly lifted his hand to his wound and his fingers met a thick bandage. The sound stopped and a hand took hold of his.

 

“Mind my needlework.” Porthos mumbled still half asleep.

 

        Athos tried to gingerly open his eyes. The light was less bright than when he had awoken the first time. The candles had burnt low and the wicks sizzled in the silence of the room. Swallowing a sticky saliva, Athos tried to say something but his jaws refused to work. He felt a dull pain pulsing in his skull. He moaned and felt the mattress shift under Porthos’ weight as the latter rolled onto his side. He turned his head and met two dark worried eyes, tired and bright. 

 

“How do you feel?” Porthos whispered.

 

“Sore.” He croaked and it sounded rather sincere.

 

“Not fine then.” 

 

Athos grimaced, trying to find where the pain in his skull and the numbness in his jaw came from and looked at Porthos with a suspicious look, a deep crease between his eyes.

 

“Did you … ?” He began. “Did you …?

 

“Did I what?” Porthos asked frowning

 

“Did you help me to … sleep?”

 

“I wouldn’t dare.” Porthos replied with a shocked expression but unable to suppress a smile. 

 

        He propped himself on his elbow to watch carefully his patient’s features. Athos hissed at the movement.

 

“I’m sorry, I should have slept on the floor. I’m too heavy and too large.”

 

Porthos made a move to stand up but Athos, rather unexpectedly, grabbed his wrist to stop him.

 

“Please.” He whispered before lowering his eyes, ashamed of his needy tone.

 

“I will fetch you a cup of water”. 

 

        Athos shivered when Porthos left the mattress.

 

“You cold?” Porthos asked, worried.

 

        Athos shook his head and his friend smiled. 

 

“Alright, just drink and your human blanket will be back to warm you.”

 

“Porthos!” Athos growled throwing a look which failed to be menacing.

  
  


⚜⚜⚜⚜⚜

 

The heavy arm slung across his bare chest increased the heat he felt running under his whole skin. He began to regret the hours he had wasted hiding his wound. He was probably feverish, an infection would kill him and … Suddenly he thought of Sylvie. What if he had destroyed more than his own life with his stubbornness?  He started to feel restless and tried to free a hand. The right one was numb, as was his whole arm, from the pain in his freshly stitched side, so he tried to slip the left one from underneath Porthos’ chest. The man was snoring, his face half buried in Athos’ hair whose long strands were spread over the pillow. Athos wriggled, careful not to wake Porthos or hurt his own wound.

 

“... mmh … need?” Porthos mumbled before his mind realised what was happening. 

 

        He disentangled himself from the crumpled sheet and knelt onto the mattress.

 

“Athos, what’s wrong?”

 

“I … feel …” He stammered, managing to raise his hand and lay it on his forehead.

 

        Porthos gently pushed it and replaced it by his long fingers.

 

“No, you are not feverish.”

 

        Athos let his hand fall back onto his chest and sighed. He turned his head away from Porthos’ touch and closed his eyes. 

 

“What is it?” Porthos asked again sitting next to his friend against the threadbare blanket hanging above their heads as a poor headboard.

 

“How many?” Athos asked in a low voice.

 

“How many what? … Oh, that? … Only nine. I’m sorry if they are not as perfect as Aramis’ but you seemed to …”

 

Athos turned his head towards Porthos and looked up at him. His eyelids were heavy with exhaustion and a pain he didn’t want to talk about, but in the green depths, Porthos could read a determination which shouldn’t have surprised him. They stared at each other for a moment before a veil of moisture covered the clear irises and Athos started to try to sit up.

 

“What do you think you are doing?” Porthos asked seizing his shoulders.

 

“I must go … mmh” Athos answered as he escaped Porthos’ grip and managed to put a foot onto the floor.

 

        Porthos shuffled on his knees to settle behind Athos at the very moment when he swayed and would have collapsed between the bed and the wall without Porthos’ strong arms encircling him from behind.

 

“Let me go!” Athos shouted hoarsely wriggling to escape.

 

“Stop that!” Porthos replied harshly only to be interrupted by a scream.

 

        Athos curled on himself and his breathing became ragged and shallow.

 

“I … I …” He tried but a sob suffocated him.

 

        Porthos loosened his hold but didn’t let go of the shaky body.

 

“Will I have to use your method, this time?” He murmured in Athos’ ear. 

 

        A snort answered him which turned into something between a hiss and a sob.

 

“You … mmmh… wouldn't dare.”

 

“Don’t tempt me.” Porthos murmured with a smile, gently pulling Athos back until they were both sat against the wall.

 

        Athos tried to struggle again and his elbow hit Porthos’ ribs.

 

“Stop fighting and rest now.”

 

        Athos, at last, stayed quiet and allowed himself to lean on Porthos’ shoulder. The latter reluctantly opened his arms, only keeping his right hand on Athos’ forearm, certain that the man would try to flee again but it seemed that he had lost his last strength.

 

“I must … Sylvie.” Athos murmured yawning.

 

“Of course, my company isn’t as …”

 

“Porthos!” Athos stopped him. 

 

“Don’t worry about Sylvie. She isn’t alone and tomorrow the father of her child will be a lot better.”

 

Porthos felt Athos’ shoulders shake but it was from a silent laugh. Long minutes passed and Porthos felt his friend leaning even more heavily against him. He gently moved enough to rearrange his sleeping ‘patient’ into a more comfortable position. Lying wasn’t an option so he reached for the pillow and a blanket, piling them at his back to be as comfortable as possible for the rest of the night. 

        He dozed for what felt like hours, his head lolling uncomfortably, fighting to keep his eyelids open. When his eyes became sore, he closed them and, his cheek on his friend’s hair, he let his mind slowly drift, reliving the past days, the past months, all the while refusing to look at the next days, the next months. Unwilling to let his emotions choke him, he opened his eyes again and watched the first soft signs of dawn entering the room through a hole in the blanket which covered the window. The silence outside told him that it was still very early. He tried to concentrate on the reassuring warmth of his friend, breathing calmly against him. Athos had slightly slipped sideways and his head was now tucked under Porthos’ chin.

 

_ Porthos, you will return to the front as General du Vallon. _

 

        Soon he would lose that, the strength of this friendship, the reassuring presence, the steady support whatever happened. He thought of his new found family. He had to be strong, he had to survive. He refused to make them suffer, all of them. Unconsciously he squeezed his friend’s arm. He looked up at the ceiling, where a crack, large enough to slip a hand, told how fragile the whole edifice was. The sight moved him in a way he hadn’t expected and his vision blurred. He tried to swallow discreetly.  He sniffed as quietly as possible but he knew he had failed when he felt a warm palm gently covering his hand where it was still wrapped protectively around Athos’ forearm. He turned it to grab Athos’ fingers and squeezed. He felt his friend shift against him as he tried to sit up and he let him do it, knowing that it was useless to fight. The warm fingers slipped from his grasp and, as Athos made painful efforts to sit a little more upright against the wall, he managed to wipe his face with his sleeve. He saw a little too late that his movement hadn’t gone unnoticed and worried sleepy green eyes were staring at him, in a golden ray of sun, trying to probe his mind. 

 

“How do you feel?” Porthos asked.

 

“I could return the question.” Athos whispered, and the gentle smile on his lips in a face which seemed calm and well rested, reassured his friend.

 

Porthos brought his knees under his chin and circled them with his arms, smiling awkwardly. 

 

“I need … the … you know …” Athos said with an embarrassed expression which would have made Porthos laugh in a less dire situation. “And before you ask, I don’t need help.”

 

        Porthos was too exhausted and his mind too full of so many thoughts that he let him stand up, ready to catch him if necessary, but Athos merely groaned when the movement awoke his wound. Porthos indicated him the place with a nod, in the far corner of the room. He was impressed by his friend’s strength and willpower. He had been feverish and in agonising pain just a few hours before and now, he seemed stronger than him.

 

“Lie down.” He ordered when Athos came back.

 

“I’m not …”

 

“I want to have a look at my work.”

 

“You know, I think you spend too much time with Aramis…”

 

        Porthos’ startled expression made him smile again.

 

“You speak like him.” Athos clarified.

 

        Porthos snorted and gently peeled the bandage away from Athos’ side, the man trying to help him by arching his back as high as he could. Porthos tried to be as delicate as possible but Athos closed his eyes and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. Nevertheless, he didn’t let a sound escape his lips during the whole process and insisted on sitting up again after Porthos had replaced the bandage. They stayed shoulder to shoulder for long minutes, silently watching the soft finger of a pale sunlight caress the grubby blanket crumpled at the foot of the bed.

 

“I have decided to leave Paris.” Athos whispered barely audible.

 

“You have what?” 

 

Porthos turned his head so abruptly that he felt and even heard his vertebrae creak. Athos looked at him, his pale eyes straight into the dark irises.

 

“I am tired, Porthos. For the first time in my whole life … I can see something …” His voice broke slightly and Porthos had to restrain himself from taking his hand to comfort him. 

 

        Athos looked at him with gratitude before continuing.

 

“I know, I’m not brave enough.”

 

“Hey, stop that, please.” Porthos almost exclaimed, kneeling in front of Athos.

 

“I mean it. I’m not brave enough to face the war again, to fight, to see people die, to see y…” He pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling, swallowing convulsively, his Adam’s apple moving too quickly.

 

        This time, Porthos didn’t stop his movement and curled his fingers against Athos’ nape.

 

“I understand.” He whispered bending his head towards him. “I understand what you mean.”

 

        Athos nodded, unable to say more, selfishly taking comfort in the gentle touch and the fond gaze he met  when he looked at his friend.

 

“Thank you.” He whispered. “And sorry.”

 

Porthos leaned his forehead against his.

 

“You are the bravest man I have ever known and even this decision is brave. You have something to build and it isn’t the garrison.”

 

        A floorboard creaking outside made them jump and Athos whimpered as his attempt at standing up reignited the pain in his side. He frowned and the look he threw at Porthos was almost reproachful. 

 

“You told …”

 

**To be continued ...**


	4. Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, a short chapter today...

**oooooooooo**

 

“Aramis.” Porthos sighed angrily as a dishevelled and sweaty face appeared through the half-open door.

 

“Are you insane?” 

 

        At the shout, Athos stood up so abruptly that he stumbled and the wall alone kept him from falling. Porthos stood up on the other side of the bed. They both stared at their friend whose face was distorted by anger and fear. The saddle bag he was carrying made a loud thud as it fell onto the floor when he threw it angrily.

 

“God, you are both insane!” He shouted again before dropping onto a rickety stool which swayed dangerously under his weight. “Why? Why coming here? Why?”

 

        He put his head in his hands, and ran his fingers through his already disheveled curls before standing again abruptly. His hands on his hips, he faced Porthos with a dark look. The big man was frozen, unable to utter a word. He noticed the dark shadows under his friend’s eyes. He felt both angry and guilty. He shouldn’t have brought Athos in this grubby place, he shouldn’t have listened to Athos, he should have told Aramis about the wound.

 

“Tell me, don’t you trust me? I could have treated him at the palace, but you preferred to hide the truth.” Aramis hissed between his teeth.

 

His eyes suddenly shone in the dim light and Porthos caught his breath. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Aramis had hit him, but no, Aramis’ words were worse than his fists.

 

“You know he could die from infection, Porthos? I thought you were more sensible. Bringing him in this rat hole, what were you thinking? Don’t you know that he is ...”

 

Aramis’ voice broke as the fear took over.

 

“ _ HE _ …is … in ...the room … you kn ...”

 

        The raspy voice silenced them and they turned towards Athos just in time to see him slowly slide down the wall. Aramis literally jumped over the bed and wrapped his arms around his friend. 

 

“S … sorry … Ar … mis.” Athos whispered before letting his head drop onto his friend’s shoulder.

 

        Aramis opened his mouth to say something but closed it again, chewing his lower lip. He threw a helpless look at Porthos who had joined them on the floor but the latter looked away, all his attention on his older brother. He gently cupped Athos’ cheek and lifted his head from Aramis’ neck. He met a pair of bleary green eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and reproach. Aramis let his arms fall and stood up, his shoulders hunched. Athos’ head lolled and rolled against Porthos’ neck.

 

“You know what, Athos?” Porthos breathed softly. “I think the floor is even more dirty than the mattress … I am sure that big filthy rats live here when the place is empty.” He said, his tone belying the humour in his words.

 

        He helped his brother to lie down onto the mattress where he immediately curled on himself burying his face in the pillow.  Aramis gasped. He knew how to read Porthos’ words, he knew he had provoked this anger and that he deserved it. When Porthos looked up at him with a stern expression, he stepped back, his eyes wide, and reached for the door knob.

 

“Stay.” Porthos hissed from the bed where he was sitting next to Athos, a hand on his head.

 

“I … no … I must ...” Aramis managed to mutter as he opened the door.

 

“Don’t you dare, Aramis.” Porthos snarled raising a menacing finger.

 

        Aramis leaned on the door, closing it. 

 

“Come here.” Porthos tried again in an almost pleading tone.

 

        Aramis shook his head, his eyes fixed on the floor.

 

“Don’t be as stubborn as this one.” Porthos exclaimed turning his head towards the figure in the bed. 

 

        He waited patiently until a pair of dark bright eyes met his. The turmoil in Aramis’ mind was almost visible, almost palpable.  He had the same expression they had seen that dreadful day when he had asked them to shoot him. Unconsciously, Porthos gently scratched Athos’ scalp, letting his fingers run through the sweaty strands before winding one of them around his forefinger. Aramis stared at Porthos’ hand, transfixed by the soothing movement, desperate to join his friends in a selfish need to be comforted.

 

“You don’t need me.” Was the harsh answer Pothos finally received and Aramis turned around abruptly. 

 

        Porthos rushed to the door to stop him, grabbing his elbow and making him turn back towards him. He heard Athos gasp, obviously already missing his reassuring presence or fearing the argument which would surely follow.

 

“Will you stop that, Aramis. What do you mean by that? Of course he needs you, we  all  need you.”

 

“He told you, he told d’Artagnan and he hid it from me. Do I need to add  any thing?” Aramis retorted, violently dislodging his friend’s hand, his eyes blazing, a bitter rictus on his lips.

 

        Porthos recoiled slightly, surprised and irritated, before spreading his arms helplessly and whispering, in a last attempt to keep him from leaving their temporary shelter:

 

“You are insufferable. At least, let me explain, then you can …”.

 

        They were so engrossed in their argument that they didn’t notice that Athos had managed to stand up again. It seemed that, one more time, the wall at his back was the only thing making him stay upright. His left hand was clutched at his side and his bare skin was covered in goosebumps.

 

“I didn’t tell them.” He whispered, his voice hoarse and shaky.

 

        They turned towards him and froze. Aramis raised his hand but didn’t move and Porthos rushed to his Captain’s side gripping his arm to steady him.

 

“I didn’t tell them, Aramis …” He made a pause to catch his breath. “ D’Artagnan saw it and I suppose that Porthos guessed.”

 

        Porthos cocked his head, embarrassed, his eyes fixed on Aramis in expectation.

 

“But I didn’t guess.” Aramis sighed clutching at his wild curls, his head bowed.

 

        Athos slowly lifted his right hand towards him but Aramis couldn’t bring himself to look at him. Porthos could feel Athos’ strength weakening and he had to tighten his grip to keep him from falling. Aramis turned back to the door, overwhelmed by too many emotions.

 

“Aramis, stop!” Porthos shouted.

 

Aramis froze but didn’t turn around.

 

“I am … I must … I …” He stammered.

 

“Look at him, Aramis.” Porthos said softly.

 

        Athos’ trembling hand was still raised in an inviting movement. Aramis took a deep breath and as he slowly turned around his eyes widened. He gasped.

 

“I’m …” Athos began but he couldn’t finish as his knees betrayed him. 

 

        Aramis rushed to brace him. Porthos gently released Athos’ arm as Aramis lowered their friend onto the floor where he followed him. For a few seconds he held him upright,  kneeling in front of him, gripping his shoulders tightly, looking straight into his friend’s pale eyes, but when he noticed how exhausted Athos was, the way his neck couldn’t bear the weight of his head, he just wrapped his arms around him and the Captain leaned on him with a shaky, almost relieved, sigh. Aramis cupped his head and burying his fingers in the thick wet hair, he murmured a litany of words against Athos’ ear. Words which Porthos couldn’t understand, but could easily guess. 

 

        Relieved, he sat down behind Athos, laying a hand on his back and the other one on his shoulder. Aramis looked at him with such a helpless expression, his eyes veiled, that Porthos shivered. He moved his right hand to Aramis’ arm and pressed it with a reassuring nod and a soft smile. He could feel his friend tremble under his palm and his heart sank when he realised how broken they were, each of them in his own way. He suddenly wished he could give them strength and hope through the comforting touch of his hands, but he wasn’t even sure he had enough strength for the three of them. He had always heard older soldiers say that war and battles made men wiser and stronger but it wasn’t how he felt. In this instant, in the dark refuge, he couldn’t feel anything but pain, sorrow and an immense fatigue. He was older -he felt older- but he wasn’t stronger or wiser. Aramis shifted and Porthos opened his eyes, wondering when he had closed them, his mind numbed by the whispered words of his friend and his own anxious thoughts.

. 

“I’m so sorry, Athos.” Aramis said a little louder but in a wobbly voice.

 

        He wanted to flee, he wanted to hide his feelings, to hide the way his eyes betrayed him, but he knew he couldn’t, so he just stared at the ceiling, swallowing convulsively, trying to reign in his emotions under Porthos’ fond gaze.

 

“Er … can I …” Athos mumbled, his voice barely audible. “I feel … Can you …”

 

He gently let his hand slip from Aramis’ back -he couldn't remember at which point he had grabbed his friend’s jacket clutching at it like a drowning man- and tried to push him a little, but  Aramis seemed loath to let go of him.

 

Between them, the two men felt Athos take a quivering breath and his body suddenly shook, the tremors reverberating through their chests.

 

**To be continued ...**


	5. Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oooooo0ooooo
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments. Here is my last chapter (Maybe my last story because it's necessary to move on, isn't it? ... Or not. lol)
> 
> oooooo0ooooo 

 

**oooooOOOOO0OOOOOooooo**

 

“Aramis, I think our dear Captain doesn’t need two blankets.” Porthos said with a wink.

 

          And indeed, the sound which left Athos’ lips, muffled by Aramis’ shirt, almost sounded like a laugh until a hiss replaced it. Porthos and Aramis exchanged a worried look before helping their friend to return to the bed, where, of course, he insisted on staying upright. Porthos covered him with the sheet and settled next to him while Aramis choose to sit down facing them. He readied himself for the conversation which would surely come. As nothing came he just decided to change the subject, nervously playing with the sheet where he absent mindedly began to enlarge a tearing.

 

“Did you put something on the wound, Porthos?”

 

“Honey.” Porthos answered hesitantly.

 

“Good.”

 

          The room became quiet again, the silence only troubled by the soft sound of Aramis’ fingers torturing the sheet and the first signs of the city coming back to life.

 

“I’m fine, Aramis.” Athos said softly.

 

“Athos.” Porthos chided raising an eyebrow.

 

“I think I could do with … that … that smelly thing.” Athos had to pause to catch his breath as the pain increased in his side. “That thing you always insist on covering us with each time you … you … practice your needle art on our skin.”

 

          Aramis couldn’t help but laugh and Porthos smiled broadly.

 

“Oh, that disgusting thing which numbs the skin as if it were dead!” Porthos grimaced.

 

“Mmmh.” Athos answered.

 

“I must oblige, Captain.”

 

“But you know that a discussion is needed.” Athos drawled as he reclined to let Aramis examine him, his eyes searching his friend’s.

 

          Porthos stood up to retrieve the saddlebag. He handed Aramis a small pot, the size of an apple, closed by a cork and a rag, containing a yellowish salve. When he opened it, a strong smell filled the room. He made a grimace and turned his head away. Aramis shook his head with a smile.

 

“Honey, to help the scarring, garlic and thyme, to fight the infection, cow parsnip to numb the pain and lavender mainly for the perfume … I must admit that the lavender effect isn’t very noticeable.”  Aramis explained.

 

“Oh, the wizard allows us to learn his secrets.” Porthos laughed.

 

“He rarely shares his secrets .” Athos mumbled, gritting his teeth against the pain.

 

          Aramis stopped his ministrations and looked at him with a frown, his eyes darkening.

 

“Speaking of secrets, do you think that being pierced like a roast rabbit on a stick is something a sensible man must keep secret?”

 

          Aramis’ tone was harsh again and Athos caught his breath. They stared at each other for a moment then Aramis, having unwrapped the long bandage from around Athos’ waist, took a minute to study the stitches, to probe at the edges of the wound, his fingers feeling fresh on Athos’ skin in spite of the burning pain following each touch.

 

“You have lost weight, Athos.” He stated sadly as he carefully spread the salve on the pale skin.

 

“Is that all you have to say?” Porthos exclaimed.

 

“You are cold ... And Porthos, your stitches are perfect.” Aramis smiled fondly. “Here, it’s done. The salve will numb the area around the wound for several hours … If you are reasonable and don’t strain yourself.”

 

          He removed his jacket throwing a meaningful glance at Athos.

 

“I promise.” Athos answered quietly, sitting up against the wall and gratefully pulling on Aramis’ warm jacket with careful slow movements. “I promise.”

 

    Aramis snorted.

 

“What?” Athos asked.

 

“Promises … I remember a day when you said that we had to tell each other everything.” Aramis answered, anger clear in his tone.

 

“I … It’s different.”

 

“Different? How is it different? This could have killed you if Porthos hadn’t been wise enough to look for you.” Aramis replied, his voice too loud, pointing at the bandage he had replaced. “And I was too stupid to …”

 

“No, Aramis, please.” Athos pleaded.

 

          He bowed his head, rubbing nervously at his left wrist with his thumb. Porthos who was sitting again next to him, laid a calming hand on the restless fingers, wrapping them in the comforting warmth of his large palm.

 

“You had important things to do, to think about. Your future is …” Athos murmured in a flat voice.

 

“Don’t you know that you are in my future, whatever happens, all of you?” He breathed out shakingly.  “And if possible, alive.” He added with a bitter smile.

 

          Athos couldn’t bring himself to raise his head and tell him what he had decided. He felt Porthos slip his arm around his shoulders, a warm reassuring weight.

 

“What?” Aramis asked as he noticed his friends’ behaviour. “ What are you hiding again? … Porthos? What…?”

 

          Athos shook his head and turned his eyes towards the window. The sun was now bright and he blinked when his eyes met the finger of white light piercing through the hole in the makeshift curtain. His head was still sore, the pain radiating through his jaw and neck. Outside, they heard the heavy wheels of a wagon making its way on the uneven cobbles and men yelling at each other, children laughing, dogs barking.

 

“Where are we Porthos?”

 

“Near _le Châtelet_. An … old friend … owns this place and when I need …” Porthos tried to explain.

 

“Thank you.” Athos just answered, in a very low voice.

 

“But why here?” Aramis asked again, slapping his knee with anger and making the small pot of salve roll onto the floor.

 

          He watched it as it turned on itself then stopped in a crease between the tiles. Then he continued, his voice a little calmer but still strained.

 

“Porthos, why?”

 

“How did you find us?” Porthos asked in lieu of an answer.

 

“D’Artagnan told me. At least, he doesn’t follow your lead in this case. Hiding secrets isn’t his forte, Athos.”

 

          Athos briefly looked up, but the blazing dark eyes which met his made him bow his head again as Aramis continued, blinking nervously, running his hand through his hair.

 

“He knew the place because you came here with him once, Porthos, a few years ago …  besides, I wonder why.” He added letting his eyes roam over the shabby walls. “D’Artagnan was worried. I had to insist but I managed to make him confess that maybe you were hidden here. He told me because he is sensible, more than you two. He wanted to come but his cheek needed to be treated and I took care of it then I let Constance finish the work and calm him.”

 

          Aramis made another short pause before continuing.

 

“ I lost all these hours because everyone hid the truth from me. If it's any reassurance, Athos, your young friend protected your secret until late into the night. He is as stubborn as you but he was also worried. We were all worried. I had to reassure Sylvie too, don’t think that she doesn’t know, but she knows you and she respects your choice. I just can’t understand why … I thought ...”

 

          Aramis was almost breathless as he stopped. The only sounds in the room were the nervous breathing  of the three men. The awkward silence stretched for long minutes.

 

“I have decided to leave.” Athos mumbled, his face hidden behind his hair.

 

          Porthos squeezed his shoulder in support.

 

“What?” Aramis exclaimed. “You what?”

 

“D’Artagnan will take my place.” Athos said raising his head with such a resolute look in his tired eyes that Aramis flinched.

 

“You knew?” Aramis asked turning to Porthos who just nodded.

 

“But why? You have so many things to do here. You are young. You … We need you … I …”

 

“I know.” Athos answered calmly.

 

“I …” Aramis bowed his head and fumbled for a few seconds to find the hole in the sheet he had already enlarged enough to pass his hand.

 

          Athos and Porthos waited, exchanging worried glances.

 

“I am not sure …”

 

          Aramis paused again. Porthos bent towards him to calm the restless fingers threatening to tear up the whole sheet. Aramis looked at their joined hands and stopped.

 

“I think I will refuse the ...” He admitted at last.

 

“No you won’t.” Athos replied in his Captain tone.

 

          Aramis shook his head again and sighed sadly.

 

“I’m not …”

 

“Fit to lead anyone?” Athos chuckled softly.

 

          Porthos frowned, wondering where this idea came from.

 

“Was I a good Captain?” Athos asked softly.

 

“Of course you are. Why do you say ‘was’? You ARE a good Captain.” Aramis exclaimed with enthusiasm gripping Athos’ ankle.

 

          Athos smiled and looked at the window for a moment before explaining.

 

“When Tréville asked me to take his place, I told him that I wasn’t fit to lead anyone.”

 

“And you were wrong.” Porthos protested.

 

“I still think that I am not fit to lead anyone, Porthos, that’s why I want to leave but it’s not the main reason. For the first time, I can see something else than …”

 

“Than war and death?” Aramis whispered.

 

          Athos nodded.

 

“Something much bigger. The biggest experience of my whole life. I have something to build.” He smiled his eyes dreamy.

 

“And it’s not the garrison.” Porthos said with a grin.

 

“Is it really what you want?” Aramis murmured, unconsciously mirroring what Porthos had said five years before.

 

          Athos nodded again.

 

“D’Artagnan has proved himself enough. He is a leader, he is a great warrior, he is sensible and sensitive. Years ago I said that, one day, he would be the best of us all and this day is today. I don’t mean that you are not…”

 

“We know.” Aramis smiled shifting closer to his friends.

 

          As if refusing the contact, to Aramis’ dismay, Athos stood up -surprisingly rather easily- and approached the window. He pulled aside the blanket hanging against it revealing a blue sky where the oiled paper used as poor window panes was torn apart. A fresh breeze entered the room and Athos watched the horizon where the last remnants of the night slowly disappeared above the rooftops in light feathers of mist dancing in the morning sun.

 

“Don’t tell him for now, please.” Athos whispered without turning around.

 

“I still don’t know how I will manage … without you.” Aramis said in a wobbly voice standing up to join Athos in front of the window. “Without you both.”

 

“We managed without you.” Porthos mumbled regretting immediately his words.

 

          Aramis bowed his head, nervously scratching his neck, and closed his eyes. Porthos stood up awkwardly and approached his friends, laying a tentative hand between Aramis’ shoulder blades, but when the latter turned towards him, there was no reproach in his eyes just an understanding soft expression ...  and a sadness Porthos wished he could erase. Athos’ worried look on them quickly turned into something so warm that Porthos, slipping between his two brothers, slung his arms around their shoulders and squeezed. They all looked through the window that Athos had managed to open - in spite of its rusty hinges and crumbling framework-  blinking because of the blinding sun, at least that’s what they all wanted to believe. Porthos sniffled and Aramis swiftly wiped his cheek with his shoulder.

 

“It’s a new day.” Athos whispered.

 

          They stayed silent, relishing the quiet moment, this place where they felt as though they were in the eye of the hurricane which, very soon, would carry them away.

 

“Are we good now?” Porthos asked.

 

“Always.” Aramis answered, his voice hoarse, stretching his hand out in front of him.

 

“Always.” Athos mirrored laying his hand on Aramis’

 

“Is that our new motto?” Porthos laughed softly.

 

“We can’t use the other one.” Aramis exclaimed. “Someone is missing here.”

 

“There is always someone missing. Many people are missing.” Athos whispered barely audible. “Too many people.”

 

          Porthos pulled him closer to his side and was tempted to kiss his temple to comfort the still grieving man, but he wasn’t sure that the gesture would be welcomed. Releasing Aramis, he added his hand over his brothers’ and said, in a solemn voice:

 

“The three of us, together, whatever happens, wherever we are … always.”

 

“Always.” They echoed in a murmur.

 

“And now, it’s time to join our dear fourth.” Aramis laughed, his eyes suspiciously bright as he stepped back.

 

“Wait.” Athos murmured hesitantly.

 

“Are you alright?” Porthos asked worriedly.

 

          Athos nodded and slowly, carefully, he reached for Aramis’ shoulder, gripping it almost bruisingly, slipped his left arm around Porthos’ waist and closing their small circle, as their heads nearly touched, as their arms linked together, he murmured again, sealing their wow with this one word:

 

“Always.”

 

**THE END**


End file.
